


Love, Bread, Handcuffs

by Annevar44



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annevar44/pseuds/Annevar44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert's been rescued from the river.  You might think he'd be grateful.  He's not.</p><p>  <i>"I'm going out to see Cosette and then I'm stopping at the market on the way back. Is there anything I can get you?"</i></p><p>   <i>"A river," Javert fires back. "One river. One bridge. And this time, no damned heroics." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Bread, Handcuffs

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Любовь, хлеб, наручники](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748726) by [rose_rose (Escargot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escargot/pseuds/rose_rose)



"But you must," says Valjean.

"Piss off," Javert answers. They have had this argument before.

“Javert. Three months of rest, he said, or the leg will not set properly. You've got nowhere to be. Stay. Let me help you.”

"Another minute of your help will drive me mad.". Javert is sneering. He is quite good at sneering, Valjean has noticed. It's a facial expression he has clearly practiced.

Valjean does not sneer back; instead he produces a pained smile. He is patient with Javert's sneering ways, since he can see through them to the wounded man within. Javert is a suffering soul, and ever since Digne, Valjean has made it his life's work to help all suffering souls, no matter how surly or ungrateful. In fact, the ungrateful ones make for better penance.

“You should have breakfast," Valjean says. "I brought bread from the boulangerie at the corner. The kind you like.”

“Bread,” Javert mutters. He is speaking _sotto voce,_ but not so _sotto_ that Valjean will miss his words. “Bread, the man brings me, every damn morning. Yes, certainly. That is a fair exchange. I am marooned here with nothing -- nothing! -- to look forward to; my leg aches and I cannot make it down the stairs without your damn arms supporting half my weight. But you have brought me bread and that is wonderful, that fixes everything. So, absolutely. Give me some damn baguettes.”

Valjean hands him the basket. The left cuff of Javert’s shirt is unbuttoned; and Valjean understands this means the injured right wrist is still faring worse than Javert admits to. It has been three weeks since the accident. 

Javert rips off a hunk of bread with his left hand. Valjean’s eyes keep returning to that unbuttoned cuff. He aches to button it for Javert. This is a recurring fantasy: he can imagine helping Javert dress each morning, stroking his skin and kissing his neck, helping him to the washroom and fetching things for him. Javert, he imagines, would smile and reach over to caress him in return. 

No, Valjean corrects. Javert would be just like this: irascible and impatient. But every now and then he would show the man he truly is -- he would look at Valjean with smoldering eyes and say--

“Hey! Haven’t you any butter?” the former inspector says caustically. “How do you expect me to eat this crap without butter?”

Javert’s body is healing slowly. His temperament, however, is worsening day by day. But Valjean is patient with him. Valjean has the patience of a saint.

* *

Fuck everything, thinks Javert. Fuck this place. Fuck this lousy bread. Fuck this man, who tiptoes around trying to do me favors, as if he hasn’t done me enough favors, too many damn favors.

Fuck, most of all, myself. 

Javert has no idea what he was trying to prove when he leaped from the bridge; all he knows is that he is left with the worst of all possible worlds. He could have jumped and died; or he could have not jumped and still had the use of his various body parts; or he could have jumped, had a refreshing swim and climbed out on the banks with a clearer head. He could have simply moved to fucking London and spent his days sipping tea, eating scones, and never laying eyes on that whoreson Valjean again. Any of these outcomes would have left him perfectly content. But no. He has ruined everything. And there is no one to take it out on except Valjean, who doesn’t deserve it but always puts up with it. 

A normal man would curse back, would have kicked Javert out weeks ago, would never, in fact, have hauled him out of the river in the first place. But Valjean is not a normal man. He is some kind of saint, and sainthood has allowed him to get a free pass from God despite the fact that he is a lying cheating scoundrel-- 

Saints are hard to tolerate in the best of circumstances. And what makes matters worse is that Javert owes this one his life; not to mention he sometimes needs this saint’s help to reach the washroom in time. Or to bring him butter. 

“The butter!” Javert yells again; too late, as Valjean is already opening the door to his bedroom, with several neat pats arranged beautifully on his best plate.

* *

Later that day, Valjean assembles supplies to re-dress Javert’s right wrist. The wound was deep and still seeps blood-tinged fluid, though this is improving. Valjean was worried about septicemia for the first week; indeed there was one terrible night when Javert tossed in a fever and muttered in delirium. On that night in the midst of his tormented moans, he had reached out and gripped Valjean by the shoulders and said in a caressing, adoring voice, “By Christ, why is it I never know whether to take you as my prisoner, or just fuck you into oblivion?” Valjean had been shocked, and the shock had gone straight to his groin with brute and throbbing power. He had had the sudden feeling that he was an open book to Javert, that Javert could see in him a man of passion - a man that Valjean had long since forgotten he once was. Then Javert had reached out with his hot hands and trailed them down Valjean’s bare-naked chest -- bare-naked, because his last clean shirt had been ripped earlier that evening when he had pinned down an insensible, sweating, cursing Javert who had been dead set on fighting his way out of bed and wrecking his newly-set leg. 

Those fevered hands. Those fingers moving over his skin. The look of desire that played across Javert’s face. Valjean had held very still when the delirious Javert stroked his chest. Had even leaned forward a little -- not intentionally; it had just happened that way -- wondering if the hands would come to rest on his waist. A heat had bloomed in his groin, an ache, and he had remained there at the bedside even after Javert’s hands fell inertly to his sides; even after Javert closed his eyes and lay quiet at last. 

That was how it had begun. The beginning had been easy - a lightning-strike, a moment of breathless delight. The next steps are proving tricky.

“Come now, Javert; you know that dressing needs to be changed. I’ve brought fresh cloths and hot water. I’ll be as gentle with you as I can. Please, Javert.”

“Piss off,” groans Javert, and hugs his pillow tightly over his head.

Valjean is feeling a little less patient.

* *

It's morning again, and Valjean enters Javert's room, bearing thick crusty bread arranged prettily on a plate. This time it is not his best plate, but still one of the nicer ones. Javert is still sleeping. Valjean hesitates, tiptoes up to the bed and sets the bread down on the bedside table and tiptoes away.

But Javert is not actually asleep. He is faking it, partly because he is in no mood for conversation, and partly because he has awoken with an epic erection, which he is unable to deal with properly owing to his injured right wrist (not to mention the infernal comings and goings of his baguette-toting host) so he is taking refuge in one of his favorite fantasies and does not want any interruption. 

_He leaps up and throws a startled Valjean down on the bed, and never mind the damn baguettes, which scatter everywhere. Valjean gapes up at him in shock and yells, “What do you think you‘re-- ” at which point Javert silences him with a violent kiss and tells him to shut the hell up. Then he draws up Valjean’s wrists and produces the handcuffs he has cleverly concealed under the mattress. He cuffs Valjean’s wrists to the bedposts above his head. Valjean struggles mightily against the indignity of bondage but loses out to Javert anyway, which goes a long way to prove that he is just as hot for this as Javert is and his struggles are less than genuine -- because, face it, the man is strong as a horse, and if he is letting Javert tie him up you can bet it is only because he is desperate to be saddled and ridden hard._

A moment later, Valjean tiptoes back in to check on him. "Can I get you anything?" he asks in his most patient and saintly voice. "Did you like the bread?"

"Whatever," Javert scowls. For a moment it looks like Valjean might scowl back. Almost.

* *

A day later. Valjean knocks at his door politely. "I'm going out to see Cosette and then I'm stopping at the market on the way back. Is there anything I can get you?"

"A river," Javert fires back. "One river. One bridge. And this time, no damned heroics." He levels a glare at the other man, readying himself for Valjean's usual patient smile. 

Instead Valjean strides across the room and shoves his face close to Javert's and says in a low fierce voice, "You're better than this, Javert."

Javert, stung, reaches about for a retort. "I used to be," he snarls. "Not anymore." Valjean turns on his heel and leaves, letting the door slam behind him. 

Long after he's gone, Javert's heart is still pounding.

* *

Another morning. Valjean slams a hunk of bread on a chipped plate, and to hell with the butter. He stalks into Javert's room intending to slam it down on the bedside table without a word. But again Javert is sleeping and his face is turned outward, his hair fallen loose and the sheets half off him so his beautiful, lithe body is partly exposed. 

Valjean reaches out a tentative hand and touches Javert’s forearm with his finger. Javert does not stir. Emboldened, he traces Javert’s jaw. He really does not know what has come over him -- what would the bishop say to this? -- but he cannot help himself. Heat seems to envelop him. His cock engorges. He traces Javert’s lips lightly, imagining their hot press against his own. He pulls back the covers just a little and stands staring, wishing...

* *

After he leaves, Javert opens one eye and wonders, heart racing, what the hell that was all about.

* *

Valjean has come back to get Javert up and help him practice on the stairs, first down and then up, as he is supposed to do twice a day per orders of the surgeon. Javert, as usual, is cursing. "It's a waste of time. I'm tired. I'll do it tomorow."

Every previous day, Valjean has cajoled and coddled his guest. But not today. He hauls Javert to his feet roughly, not bothering to help him get his balance, so that when he lets go the Inspector staggers, and nearly falls, and cries out in pain. Valjean looks at him with scorn. "You'll do it _now._ And I am warning you, Javert: I won't be doing your fetching and carrying much longer."

He stands waiting for Javert's sullen scowl. Instead the other man regards him keenly. The hostility melts out of his expression and a lean smile flashes, showing the pointed tips of Javert's teeth. Despite his awkward leg, Javert manages something approaching a bow. "Monsieur le maire," he says quietly, "you are quite correct. I will practice the stairs -- if you will be good enough to help me." 

They proceed toward the stairs, Javert with one arm slung over Valjean's shoulders. He apologizes for burdening Valjean and Valjean answers that it's no burden. Secretly Valjean loves this feeling: his strength bearing up to take Javert's weight; Javert leaning on him, trusting him not to falter.

* *

Javert dreams of the other Valjean that night. Not the tirelessly patient saint who floats in the ether, untouchable, and doles out unwanted mercy, and screws with Javert's mind, but the sweaty, iron-eyed convict, the mayor, the desperate fugitive: a man so strong he can lift a cart from the mud, heave himself up a convent wall, drag a drowning man back from the grip of death. That's the man who has swum through Javert's fantasies for as long as he can remember.

He knows what it would feel like to have that man's strength bearing down on him, moving on top of him. He has felt it once: during one of those first nights, when he was so feverish and desperate to die. He had sworn his intention to get up and jump directly out the window, bedrest be damned, and Valjean had -- miracle of miracles and torment of torments -- climbed on top of him to keep him pinned down. They had fought, and for a moment Javert had known pure ecstasy: he had ripped Valjean's shirt and seen his muscles standing out like ropes. It had driven him mad with desire and he had struggled and cursed like the former Toulon guard he was, digging his fingers and heels into Valjean's flesh, and the whole time wanting to grab Valjean's face too, and kiss him, and devour him. 

But Valjean, of course, had felt nothing. He was just being his usual saintly self, keeping his patient from harm. How Valjean could have lain atop his writhing body yet not noticed his throbbing iron rod, he had no idea. Apparently saints never thought about such things, being immune to the needs and desires that gripped common men.

* *

"Valjean. Is there bread? Valjean!"

The answer comes lazily from down the hall. "Get off your ass and get it yourself!" 

Javert curses softly, grinning with delight. The man becomes less a saint with every passing day.

* *

Morning. Valjean has brought a basket of baguettes; Javert is again pretending to sleep. _He has Valjean in bed, hands cuffed to the bedposts and looking up with wide-eyed desire as Javert rips off his shirt. Shirtless, bound Valjean looks up at him and purrs playfully, “Please don’t hurt me, Inspector, I promise I’ll obey, I won’t resist you, I’ll go quietly.” At this point, Javert always agrees to be gentle, but it's certain that later Valjean will break his word and resist anyway (like the lifelong lawbreaker he is) and so Javert will need to take harsh measures with him. Valjean -- the shirtless, damp, earthy Valjean who exists only in Javert's mind -- always loves that part._

* *

Fully-dressed Valjean stands hesitantly at the bedside, watching Javert sleep. Is it wrong to watch a man sleep when he is so peacefully, totally unaware that he is being watched, totally unaware that just a foot from his bed stands Valjean with his cock throbbing and his mind full of unspeakable thoughts? The sheets are in disarray and Javert's legs are bare; Valjean can see the long lines of his muscles and even some curling dark fur at his thighs. What would it be like to be in the grip of this man, to be a prisoner of Inspector Javert, cuffed, shoved into a cell, pushed up against a wall, taken hard… 

He cannot help it; he reaches for his cock and begins to stroke it quietly, quietly. He pulls Javert’s covers down a little lower. As a sort of experiment, just to see how it would feel, he whimpers softly, "No, Inspector. Please, Inspector..."

* *

Javert opens both his eyes.

Valjean, caught, blushes crimson.

Javert reaches out with his good hand and takes hold of Valjean’s cock through the thin material of his trousers, feels it jerk and swell under his grip. His eyes bore into the other man's. 

“Not such a saint as you pretend, are you?” he whispers hoarsely.

Valjean's belly contracts with something like fear. Once again he has the feeling that Javert can see right through him, can reach in and put a finger on his wet pulsing heart. 

“I never said I was a saint," he stammers finally. "I’m a man like any other.”

“Yeah, well, then -- it's way past time you proved it,” Javert says, half-snarling. His gaze is hot, but it isn't anger that burns there. He grips Valjean about the waist and pulls him closer. “Get down in this bed. On your back. You need to learn respect for the full _power_ and _extent_ of the _law._ Something I've been wanting to pound into you for about thirty years, and God knows you have it coming.”

He licks his lips and gazes at Valjean, who lets out a shuddering groan and moves obediently toward the bed. For all his great strength, he seems suddenly weak as a kitten. Javert pulls him down and climbs atop him, straddling his hips and leaning low so they are face to face -- and to hell with the leg -- and begins to rock his pelvis slowly against Valjean‘s erection. 

He rocks faster, looking down into Valjean's face. Valjean's eyes are half-closed and he is moaning and arching his back to thrust upward against Javert's spread thighs -- _no saint now,_ Javert thinks with satisfaction, in the small part of his mind that still is able to put together thoughts. With his good hand he grabs Valjean by the collar and tears his shirt open down the middle, exposing the rock-hard chest he has been mouthing and nuzzling every night in his dreams. Valjean's breath comes harder, faster, he is losing control; he groans and shivers and kicks out weakly, striking his foot against the bedside table. The baguettes scatter across the room. “The bread--” Valjean gasps. 

Javert, driving close to ecstasy now, leans in to take Valjean's earlobe between his teeth. “For fuck's sake. Shut up about the everloving bread,” he mutters, and bends his head to taste Valjean's first kiss.


End file.
